


The Retired Detective

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retirement-era fic, with a look at how Sherlock is dealing with all the peace and quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Retired Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [f_m_r_l](https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/gifts).



> A gift for fmrl, with thanks for the various lovely birthday fics I've received from you. Thank you to warriorbot for beta-reading!

John gazed out of the train window as the scenery sped by, warming his hands around a tepid cardboard cup of tea; Eastbourne wasn’t that far from London, but the fields and endless expanse of horizon were enough to make anyone think they were out in the middle of nowhere. There had been an almighty storm a few days ago, to the point that John had been concerned that his train up to London would be delayed, but it seemed to have blown over and taken the heavy, oppressive summer heat with it and now the late July sunshine did its best to dry out a rather watery landscape.

Sherlock wasn’t at the station to meet him, and John rolled his eyes affectionately. Doubtless Sherlock had grown absorbed in his chemical studies, or had found some necessary task on his hives that couldn’t wait, and had completely failed to notice the time. It wasn’t the first time it had happened and surely wouldn’t be the last, and so instead of calling their house John merely walked to the taxi rank outside the station.

These days home was an old farmhouse rather than a cluttered flat, with an outhouse that Sherlock had swiftly claimed as laboratory space and a large second sitting room that served as a library. Despite the wealth of information available online these days Sherlock couldn’t be persuaded to get rid of any of their books when they moved and John couldn’t blame him, since fully half of the collection was his.

John had wondered how Sherlock would take to living outside his beloved London, but he seemed to relish the extra time to pursue his chemical researches and had thrown himself into his new studies of apiculture with all the passion he had once reserved for kitchen table dissections in 221B.

Their house was a lonely place, perched on the south face of the downs and near the chalk cliffs, with the closest neighbours being the students and teachers at The Gables boarding school. Sherlock had struck up a cordial friendship with McPherson, the science teacher, and sometimes he and the headteacher – Harold Stackhurst – would stroll over in the evening.

However for the most part it was just him and Sherlock, and John frowned when his taxi passed a car pulling out of the lane that led to the house. It looked for all the world like Stackhurst’s car with – John squinted – Ian Murdoch, the maths teacher, slumped in the passenger seat.

It couldn’t be. The school was only ten minutes’ brisk walk away and it was a gorgeous day; there was no earthly reason why Stackhurst should have driven over rather than walked, but this lane led only to their house and so Stackhurst must have come from there.

Driving up the narrow lane the taxi had to pull over to let a car – bearing the logo of the Sussex constabulary – ease past them, and by the time they reached the house John all but flung the fare at the driver before grabbing his bag and racing into the house.

‘Sherlock?’

It was horribly quiet and cold fingers clutched at John’s heart. Dear God, what if something had happened to Sherlock, what if he’d had an accident or needed help and John, for the first time in all their years together, was _too late_ …

‘Sherlock!’

John dropped his bag by the front door and strode down the hallway, shoving open the doors that led to living room, dining room, kitchen, and pausing only long enough to register – with a growing sense of dread – that each room was empty and silent.

‘John.’

John exited the sitting room, with its cold, empty hearth, to find Sherlock in the doorway of the library, standing on his own two feet and smiling at him, and sagged in relief.

‘Good God, is that the time?’ Sherlock glanced at his watch. ‘Apologies for not meeting you at the station.’

‘Never mind about that,’ John said roughly, coming close to Sherlock and sweeping his hands over Sherlock’s torso and limbs in the brisk, efficient pattern he’d learned decades ago and had had frequent cause to use over the years. ‘What’s happened? Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine.’ Sherlock wore his reading glasses and held a small chocolate-and-silver book open in his hands, its cover worn and faded by more than a century’s-worth of hands consulting it. He quickly tucked a long finger inside to keep his place while his other hand captured one of John’s to halt his frantic pat-down. ‘I’m fine, of course I’m fine. You saw the cars, then.’

John rested his hands on Sherlock’s waist, with its slight extra padding gained as middle age had settled comfortably over him, and let Sherlock wind his arm around John’s back and pull him in for a hug. John squeezed Sherlock a little harder than he usually would and Sherlock responded, his arm tightening around John and the small book getting squashed between them.

‘How was Sarah’s retirement party?’

Sherlock’s voice was muffled in John’s hair and John said ‘Fine. What’s been happening here?’

‘Nothing.’ Sherlock’s face, when he pulled back, was shifty, and John narrowed his eyes at him until Sherlock amended it to: ‘A minor matter.’

‘A minor matter that involved the local constabulary,’ John pressed, having been the recipient of some prize-winning Sherlockian ‘Nothing to see here’ looks over the years. ‘That doesn’t sound very minor– Hang on. You had a case?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. But his voice lacked the usual satisfaction it held at a puzzle solved, and John frowned at him.

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, bit his lip, and at last said ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll tell you over a cup of tea.’

In the kitchen Sherlock tucked a scrap of paper into the old book before laying it aside, almost tenderly, and placing his glasses on top of it.

John glanced at the title – _Out of Doors_ , by J. G. Wood – before turning his attention back to Sherlock, methodically dropping teabags into mugs while he flicked the kettle on.

‘I can’t believe you had a case,’ John said, mouth quirking in amusement. He pulled the biscuit tin towards himself to find that Sherlock, in his absence, had bought John’s favourite brand of digestives. ‘I mean, I was only gone for a weekend. Clearly the whole place falls apart without me here.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said distantly, looking out of the window and tapping his fingers on the counter as the kettle began to rumble to the boil. ‘Yes, it was rather unexpected.’

John frowned. ‘I… suppose I thought you’d be happier about it. If you ever took on another case.’

‘It was a simple affair.’ Sherlock busied himself pouring water onto the teabags and prodding at them with a spoon, and John got up to pass him the milk from the fridge.

‘And?’ he prompted, when no more was forthcoming.

‘It was almost _ludicrously_ simple!’ Sherlock exploded. ‘A child could have guessed the solution and yet it took me _two days_.’ He fished the teabags out and flicked them into the sink disgustedly. ‘I’m getting slow in my old age.’

John studied the tense line of Sherlock’s back and chewed his lip. He’d have the whole account of the matter out of Sherlock later, over dinner, but for now he added milk to the tea and replaced it in the fridge before tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve to lead him over to the couch by the large, south-facing window of their kitchen.

The couch from Baker Street had come with them when they moved; it had seen more of Sherlock’s sulks than John could remember, and Sherlock exhaled a long sigh as he sank down onto the familiar comfort of it. John sat next to him.

‘I’m sure it wasn’t quite that bad,’ he said mildly, and let his thigh rest companionably against Sherlock’s. ‘But I don’t think that’s the real issue here.’ Sherlock didn’t reply, and John blew at his tea a little before venturing gently: ‘I think you miss your consulting work.’

‘It’s so _peaceful_ here.’ Sherlock, in his more mature years, had come to appreciate that peaceful wasn’t entirely synonymous with hateful, but he still had his moments and his voice held a touch of asperity as he added: ‘Since you wrote that I’d taken up _agriculture_.’

John set his tea down to hold up his hands in surrender. ‘You were the one who said you didn’t want to be bothered. If you want me to change it–’

‘No.’ Sherlock’s hand rested on John’s knee, patting almost absent-mindedly. ‘No, don’t do that. But sometimes…’

Sherlock’s voice tailed off as he looked out of the window, and John knew he wasn’t seeing their modest collection of herbs or the hives at the end of the garden.

‘You’re _allowed_ , you know.’ John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own and wound their fingers together, feeling the violinist’s calluses that had built up over the years. ‘No-one’s saying that you have to give it up completely just because you’re officially retired.’

Sherlock looked at his tea, tapping a finger meditatively against the side of his mug. ‘I did hear that Hopkins is working on something. Has been for a while now, actually. They can’t make any headway, the papers are full of it.’

Someone who didn’t know Sherlock would have thought him uninterested, almost _bored_ , but John untangled their fingers so he could drape an arm along the back of the couch around Sherlock’s shoulders.

‘Oh, love. Of course. You should email him, I’m sure he’d be glad of help.’ Stanley Hopkins, during their final years in London, had all but idolised Sherlock Holmes and done his best to imitate Sherlock’s methods while Sherlock had been almost complimentary about the young man, beneath his feigned indifference. ‘What was it?’

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. ‘At least a nine.’ Which wasn’t quite what John meant but before he could ask for more details Sherlock’s gaze slid sideways to John and he added: ‘Strictly armchair consulting only, of course.’

The cold bit deep into John’s bad shoulder these days, and even Sherlock was starting to slow down under the first twinges of rheumatism (that he refused to admit to). Nonetheless there was something in Sherlock’s face that, shockingly, John hadn’t seen in far too long, and he wondered how he could have overlooked its absence.

John kissed the hair at Sherlock’s temple, now gone entirely silver. ‘Sounds good. But go carefully. You’ll have to be more diligent than ever about keeping your name out of the papers if you don’t want people hounding you.’

‘I know.’

‘In fact,’ John continued, warming to the idea, ‘we could meet him tomorrow, if you like. I’ve not had a chance to tell you but I took in a new exhibition this weekend that I think you’d like: it’s at the Museum of London, all about grave-robbing in Victorian London.’

‘John.’ Sherlock set his tea aside and took John’s hand between both of his, looking at him. His mouth was soft, his eyes still belying the sharpness of the mind behind them despite the crows’ feet fanning out from their corners. ‘Thank you. For… for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

John smiled at him and ruffled the hair at Sherlock’s nape affectionately. ‘You’ve nothing to thank me for, you daft bugger. There’s never been anywhere else I’d rather be.’

\--End--


End file.
